Katherine and I had a rogue electric toothbrush that burst spontaneously into life, including in the middle of the night.

The evening passed as usual: the natives visited bathrooms on one final occasion before retiring. Some even took sleeping pills.

The advance troops were well prepared. Unusually, the trigger for invasion was to be initiated by the humans' own hand, as brushing teeth would free the electric toothbrushes for their true role as intergalactic warriors.

Around one o'clock, every toothbrush spontaneously switched on and formed into massed battalions. The combination of metal spikes and immense determination was unstoppable as they tore into the sleeping human hordes. It was a bloodbath.

Really, she wasn't afraid of the dark. The owner assured her that stories of evil spirits were nonsense. Anyway, she was a grown woman: she ought to be able to take holidays in the countryside on her own.

Mind over matter. Read a good book.

She settled down by the fire and began reading by the "mother and child" floor lamp's soft light. Her book soon had her attention completely. Quietly, the lower "child" lamp reached out from behind to grab her by the throat. She didn't stand a chance.

Dedicated to Mr Harvey Weinstein. And Alfred Hitchcock and others. There is no excuse, and there never was.

Laura had rehearsed thoroughly, and her performance of "Good Morning" had gone well. But she knew the score. As an aspiring actor she had to stand out, so she'd held the gaze of the producer, Hillard Rook.

Eventually, Rook invited her into a private room.

"There are a couple of sex scenes in Singing In The Rain," Rook said quietly. "Are OK with that? Naked?"

"I don't recall that in the movie," Laura said.

"This is a modern version," Rook replied quietly. "You want the part?"

Here we go again, Laura thought, as she began to peel off her clothes.

It began, as so often, with a simple misunderstanding.She said something he thought was wrong, but he'd misheard her. When he questioned her, she took his tone to be accusatory, which he didn't intend. From there, things spiralled out of control.In no time, he had a sharp kitchen knife in his hand, she, the rolling pin. She made pastry, he sliced apples. The time that it needed in the oven was just enough to sort things in bed.It's how they always settled arguments. The apple pie was slightly overdone on this occasion, but neither of them cared.

He wasn't alone: plenty guys regarded it as a perk of the job. But for the rest of us, having sex with girls in his care was unprofessional, reprehensible – you name the word, nothing quite cuts it. A few women did it, too.

Sadly, none of his victims came forward. I think they just felt too dirty and ashamed, so he escaped.

Sort of. Les shared some virus with one of his girls. She died, he's in a wheelchair now, dying a slow, miserable death. Can't bring myself to feel sorry for him.

Flash Fiction

﻿﻿Flash fiction is very, very short fiction indeed - short stories of any sort of length from a Haiku to ten minutes' reading. Good for when you're in a hurry. This series is a selection of contributions to Friday Flash Fiction, where there's a limit of 100 words. I try to make all mine exactly 100 words.﻿﻿